One More Time
by VaultBunny
Summary: She knew as soon as she met him again, these thoughts would leave her. She just had to see him. Just one more time. (Cross Posted on AO3. There is a minorly edited version there.)


The last time she left the comfort of her loved ones in search of a man didn't end so well for Makoto. The world that had once been plunged into darkness was now vibrant—full of color and light; full of a love like she thought she'd never have. But the darkness had left its stain on her heart, warned her that the beauty around her didn't shield her from the evils lurking in the shadows. She should abandon her mission, the rational part of her brain told her. This was a bad idea. A needle in a haystack type of search that she knew would only leave her feeling exhausted and kicking herself for her naïveté. She tried to rationalize it, tell herself she persevered because it was a matter of gratitude. She had been able to thank everyone that had helped her through the manhunt against her—everyone except for _him_.

Her would-be executioner turned savior. The voice in the dark that she craved when her fiancé, Satoru, called out to her; The hands that replaced her beloved's everytime she closed her eyes. The guilt came daily at this point—nearly a whole year since the Dojima fiasco had ended and she was still thinking about the heat of the body that shielded her from Yakuza eyes, and the frantic call of her name as she lay in a pool of her own blood. It wasn't romantic, not in the way books made romance seem, but her life had been a living hell and he guided her through, helped her find a strength inside her that she had forgotten existed—whether he was aware of that or not. She knew as soon as she met him again and thanked him properly, these thoughts would leave her. She could go back to her soon-to-be-husband, have a few children, and retire into anonymity like every normal person in Japan.

She just had to meet him again.

Just one more time.

She'd had next to nothing to go on—no name or face, just the timbre his voice and the scent of cigarettes mixed with a smell that was equally fair and masculine. Sweet yet musky. But, fate smiled on her during her last visit to Kamurocho in the form of Kiryu Kazuma. With her grief finally at rest, she had sought the man out with an attitude not unlike her present one: while he invoked memories of a time better left forgotten, she couldn't stand to not express her gratitude to one of the people who had helped her survive. Kiryu had been surprised, to say the least. As had she. She hadn't expected him to be so young—or handsome, an ever-girlish part of her had interjected. When she bowed to him, he'd all but begged her to raise her head. He bought her a drink, checked in on her quality of life, and seemed genuinely happy for her when she announced her engagement to her doctor (despite how unorthodox their relationship may have seemed). She had been delighted to share what she imagined would be the last evening she'd ever have with him—a happy memory of him to wash away the past. As they said their goodbyes, Makoto stopped him for just a moment longer.

"You've already done so much for me, Kiryu-San. But may I ask you one more thing?" She turned her eyes to his. They widened a fraction, but then Kiryu's eyes hardened with determination.

"Of course."

"There's another man I still haven't been able to thank properly. The man that helped me in Sotenbori...he never even told me his name. I was wondering if you knew anything about him?"

The man paused and he glanced away from her earnest stare. Makoto could see him mentally arguing with himself and wondered what about her question could made a man like Kiryu uncomfortable. He seemed hesitant, but eventually he met her gaze once more and nodded.

"I know of him. But…" Kiryu rubbed the back of his neck. Makoto bowed her head for the second time that night.

"Please, Kiryu-San. Whatever it is, I can handle it. If something has happened to him, it will be better than not knowing."

"If something happened to him," Kiryu turned the phrase over and hummed thoughtfully to himself, "something like that, I guess." He grimaced, his eyes silently begged her not to persist. Had it been a year ago, Makoto probably would have left it at that.

"I just need a name, Kiryu-San. I'll be happy with that," Makoto urged. In the silence that stretched between them, she wondered when exactly she had become a liar.

"Majima Goro," Kiryu answered at last, but he looked troubled. Makoto's heart leapt into her throat and she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking with anticipation. She couldn't bring herself to question the man's discomfort.

"Majima Goro...Thank you, Kiryu-San," she bowed and, again, Kiryu tried to stop her. They gave their final farewells—after Makoto promised she would not seek Majima out.

She kept that promise for 3 days.

Now, here she was back in Kamurocho, armed with a name and little else. Every man in this city had the smell of cigarettes, but it wasn't the right blend—too sweet, too bitter, too musky...none of them beckoned her memories forward. Her watch chimed merrily at her wrist, offsetting the tension that wafted in the breeze like the stench of garbage rotting in the street—or maybe that really was just garbage rotting in the street. Makoto wrinkled her nose and walked around, cautious of the suspicious trail of liquid that seeped from the torn plastic bags. She listened wherever she could, desperate to hear the name she kept so close to her soul, just like the handkerchief tucked near her breast—the handkerchief that had protected her watch that only he could have left for her. So far, no one mentioned any Majima that she had heard.

As the sun began to disappear behind the buildings and billboards, Makoto felt her spirits fall. How long until that rational part of her won out and convinced her just how foolish she was being? The old Makoto would have wept, but this new Makoto...she tried to convince herself that she was different despite the tears prickling the corners of her eyes. Had she finally asked too much? Had her fortune run out as quickly as it was given?

The sun had sheathed itself in the horizon by the time she finally decided to call it quits. Her feet were sore, her legs were on fire, and her stomach was empty. She started towards a main street to find a taxi to take her back to her hotel. The crowds were already out in full force, a swarm of club-goers blocking her way at every turn, and she didn't fancy the idea of navigating the masses to return to her room on foot.

For a moment, Makoto was sucked into the past. A memory of darkness but the feeling of being dragged through crowds by her arm as shouts of Yakuza howled over the din of Sotenbori nightlife. The panic almost set in as darkness enveloped her vision once again...it took her a moment to realize she had merely shut her eyes against the memory. When she opened them, an outrageous pattern bombarded her sight. She barely had time to process it as her feet stumbled and she face planted right into it.

 _Snakeskin?_ She realized. But then, the scent came to her. Cigarettes. Cigarettes and a scent that was equal parts fair and masculine. She looked up at the back before her but didn't have time to take it in before the man she stumbled into whirled around. His face didn't look angry. His eye—only one eye, she noticed—was wide with excitement as he spun on his heel, a crazed grin splitting his face. His leather-clad hands reached behind him, ducking beneath the yellow snakeskin jacket until his eye landed on her.

And time stopped.

She recognized him. The eyepatch, the gaudy outfit...the look of disbelief and despair that overtook that solitary eye as it took her in. She had crossed paths with him shortly after regaining her eyesight and the very day she and Satoru began dating. She remembered how sad this man had looked before he turned his back on them and disappeared into the crowd...he never spoke a single word to her.

It couldn't be, she thought. But hadn't Majima told her back then? He'd lost an eye. And when she met this man before, he'd only spoken to Satoru. He hadn't let her hear his voice once.

It couldn't be.

And yet…

"Are you...Majima-San?"

The look on the man's face shifted from shock to abject horror. He quickly turned from her and shouldered his way through the crowd.

"Wait! Majima-San, wait!"

Makoto hurried after him, squeezing through as best as she could, desperately locking her eyes on the yellow jacket sailing through the sea of bodies. His name echoed in her ears, her throat already growing raw from shouting. She was so close to him now, if she could just reach out…

"Majima-Sa—AH!" Her ankle twisted beneath her and though she caught herself on her hands, no one seemed to notice her distress. The herd continued forward, drunk, laughing, and staggering. They narrowly missed stepping on her hands, but one hulking mass of a foreigner stepped on her outstretched leg. She cried out in pain and fear as the large man stumbled, about to collapse. There was a flash of yellow and the man was shoved to the side. Just as quickly, Makoto was face-to-bare-chest with her savior as he lifted her from the road and pulled her into a less populated alleyway.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

That voice. There was no mistaking it. Makoto closed her eyes, even as hands clasped her shoulders and gave her a good shake.

"Do you hear me? You could have been trampled! Oi!"

She wasn't the weak little thing she was when they first met. She wasn't. But when she opened her eyes and saw the face— _really_ saw the face—that the voice came out of, her vision was immediately obscured by tears. Horror washed over the man's expression again. His hands released her shoulders and hovered uselessly to the sides.

"It's you," Makoto cried, "I've been looking for so long...and it's really you."

He was silent. Curseably silent. How could he torture her like this? But then he straightened and took two measured steps back from her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Majima-San," Makoto couldn't bring herself to be embarrassed for her pleading tone. "Please, Majima-San. Please tell me it's you."

He looked uncertain, tormented, but then his expression changed. A frightening visage overtook him, his smile wide and twisted, and a mad glint in his eye as it darkened into something less than human. He reached behind him and pulled out a Sakura-motiffed scabbard.

"The only people that come callin' after me are lookin' for a fight. Ya think you can take me all by yourself?" His voice changed. Higher pitched, manic, bone-chilling.

Makoto tried not to be afraid.

"Majima-San...do you not remember me?"

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm," he unsheathed the blade and tossed it into the air, "can't say that I do. Nope! Not a clue!" He laughed as he caught it and it shook her to her core. "If you won't fight back, I should kill you just for wasting my time."

 _Run,_ her instincts told her. _You were wrong. Just run._

But even if her ankle wasn't swelling, Makoto knew she couldn't run. She'd waited too long and wasted so much time...And she was oddly at peace.

"If it's Majima-San, then it's okay," she said, and the calmness she heard in her own voice cemented her courage.

"What?" Majima's blade faltered.

"If you want to kill me, Majima-San, then kill me. I'm alright if it's you."

His lip curled in disgust.

"What kinda thing to say is that?!"

Makoto forced herself to meet his eye. The eye contact seemed to unnerve him and he looked away...but his dagger was still ready to attack.

"Majima-San...all I've wanted was to see you. Just once. Just to thank you for all you've done for me," Makoto braced herself against a liquor sign and bowed her head, a bitter smile gracing her tear-streaked face. She was a terrible woman, she thought—a kind, loving, man was waiting for her and yet she was so ready to give up her life to another. "Thank you, Majima-San. Thank you for protecting me. Thank you for all you must have sacrificed for me...and forgive me. Please, forgive me."

"Makoto…"

Makoto choked back a sob. The sound of him saying her name after so long was more than she could have hoped for. She kept her head bowed.

"All I did was cause trouble for you...and then I betrayed you. I turned my back on you after everything and then," she reached into her blouse and removed the handkerchief. Her repaired watch poked out from under her sleeve as she held it out to him. "You fixed it. The last time we met, I left you, and you still fixed it. It means so much to me…"

There was a _chink_ as Majima sheathed his blade. His gloved hand pressed beneath Makoto's chin and raised her face.

"You should get home," he said at last.

"Majima-San?"

"You did what you came here to do, right?" He looked down at the handkerchief she offered and took it with one hand. "You thanked me. Now go home."

Makoto didn't know what she expected, but the pain in her heart destroyed her in ways that all the Yakuza bullets in the world couldn't. She bit her lip and straightened, searching Majima for any semblance of emotion. Then, he turned from her and panic set in.

"Majima-San, wait! Please don't go!" Makoto rushed to grab him but her ankle protested. The pain shot through her leg and she prepared to meet the concrete below, but she was caught by Majima's arm. Her fingers clutched his sleeve and she feared if she let go, he would disappear before her eyes.

"You really are a troublesome woman," Majima sighed. He gently extricated his arm from her grip, turned his back on her, and crouched down. "I'll get you outta the street. Then you're on your own."

Makoto nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck. He hooked his elbows under her knees and straightened his legs, carrying her on his back.

"I...have a hotel room," Makoto said, "It's by Vincent."

"Right," was all he said, but he started towards her hotel. Makoto rested her head on the back of his shoulders and closed her eyes, fully engulfed in his scent.

"Majima-San...I'm so happy I got to meet you again."

"Makoto…" There it was. Makoto tightened her hold just a fraction, desperate to be closer to the way that voice said her name. "Just stop talking," Majima practically whispered. Makoto bit her lip, but she nodded.

This would have to be enough.

Makoto wasn't sure when she fell asleep. Majima's body was warm and firm, she could have stayed pressed against him forever. But when she opened her eyes, she was in a bed with his jacket pulled up to her chin. She blinked slowly, the shroud of sleep faded away and reality cemented itself before her. She was in her hotel room. The smell of air freshener and carpet cleaner was thick and the decor wasn't too different from the jacket warming her body in its ostentatious design. It wasn't the fanciest that Kamurocho had to offer, but it was affordable and clean and that was all Makoto had needed.

She looked around for Majima, but he was nowhere to be seen. She bit her lip, lightly fingering the pattern on the jacket. He surely wouldn't have left it behind to wander the streets completely bare-chested, would he? Makoto sighed to herself. She had fallen asleep like a child on his back. He was already annoyed with her so maybe he really had dumped her there and left. The thought was more painful than she thought it should be.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her injured foot tenderly touching down on the carpet. It was with no little interest that she noticed the snug bandage wrapped around it. She held Majima's jacket to her chest and tried to rein in her emotions. She had cried far too much for one day and didn't intend to shed more tears over a man who didn't want them. She took a breath, inadvertently breathing in the man's scent. It was slightly different than she remembered, but still undeniably him.

The toilet flushed in the bathroom and Makoto heard the sink turn on. She wasn't alone after all. She watched the door with bated breath, but it didn't open. Again, the room fell silent. Did he know she was awake? Was he waiting for her to fall back asleep so he could sneak out? She waited longer still, but the door remained closed.

Makoto stood, wincing when her weight pressed down on her injured foot. She limped over to the restroom door, unsure if she should knock or...or what, she asked herself. What did she want? She thought just meeting him again would be enough. She thought all she wanted was to thank him...then why was she dreading him leaving?

No answer came to her.

The door was pulled open and Makoto couldn't scurry away in time. Majima appeared before her, his torso bare but bright and colorful from his tattoos. Apprehension soaked into her at the sight of the vibrant ink—tattoos hadn't brought her good fortune in the past—but she couldn't help the fascination that gripped her at the same time. Fearsome white snakes surrounded by red spring blossoms accented the roll of his shoulders and chest. The color was deep, alive, as though the serpents would lunge and strike her at any second. Captivated, she reached out a hand to trace the dark outline of a petal.

" _Ah_!" Makoto gasped sharply. It took her a moment to realize that it was Majima's hand, not the jaws of a snake, that latched around her wrist. His grip was firm but not painful. He guided her hand away from his body and sighed.

"If you need to use the John, just knock. Don't stand out here listening, that's just creepy," he said.

Makoto blinked, then flushed and vehemently shook her head.

"No, I wasn't! I just...I wanted to make sure it was you."

"Expecting company?" He asked. Makoto didn't know why, but the question felt baited.

"No," she told him, then, as though it was the most important thing she would say that day, "I'm here alone."

Majima shook his head, then waved his hand at her.

"Fine. Go sit back down before your ankle gets worse."

"It's really not so bad," Makoto gently protested, but Majima just gave her a look that she couldn't discern.

"Just do it," he said, "Carrying you was a one-time deal. I won't bother next time."

"Next time?" Makoto asked, the hopeful lilt to her voice caught even her off-guard. Majima grimaced, his hands clenched at his sides. For a brief moment, Makoto could see that war raging inside him once again—the same expression he wore when she called him by his name.

"Figure of speech," he said at last and motioned back towards the bed. Makoto said nothing but kept Majima's jacket pressed tightly to her chest as she carefully made her way back to the bed. She was hyper aware of Majima walking behind her, the heat of his body scorched the air between them and latched onto her spine with red-hot claws digging between the vertebrae. She had heard of tension so palpable, you could cut it with a knife. Whatever this was between them, Makoto thought they'd need something much sharper.

"Thank you for helping me back," Makoto murmured as she sat back down on the bed. Majima stood an arm's length away and only nodded. "I can't tell you how much it means to me to see you—really see you."

"Then don't," Majima said, and maybe it came out more harshly than he had intended because he visibly winced at his own voice. He shook his head and held his hand out toward her. "I need to go. Hand it over."

Makoto tightened her hold on his jacket. She wasn't ready, not yet.

"Not until you answer one thing," she said.

"I don't have time for this," Majima scowled and grabbed his jacket. He yanked but only succeeded in pulling Makoto off the bed to crash against him. She grit her teeth against the pain radiating up her leg and glared up at the man with as much defiance as she could muster.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were when we met last time?" She asked.

"Let go," Majima demanded.

"Why didn't you say anything? Why did you only speak to Satoru, even though it's obvious to me now that you recognized me?" That mad glint returned to Majima's eye, but Makoto felt no more fear. Even as his face twisted in anger, she kept her eyes on him. "Why did you just walk away?"

Makoto expected him to shout at her—maybe even strike her, as his eye certainly burned with enough disdain to make her believe he would. She didn't expect his mouth to crash against hers. She didn't expect the click of their teeth colliding or the taste of cigarettes as his tongue took full advantage of her shocked gasp and invaded, swirling around her tongue before plundering her mouth with abandon. Her knees buckled. She released her hold on his jacket and clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to keep her stable. The jacket crumpled to the floor between them, quickly forgotten, and his arms snaked around her waist to hold her flush against him.

A distant thought wriggled its way into her mind as their bodies melded together—she'd never been kissed like this before. Satoru's kiss was soft, chaste, almost shy with affection. Even when they were intimate, there was a certain level of restraint Satoru had, as though he could break her. Majima's kiss was a conqueror. It overpowered her, consumed her, staked its claim over every inch of her. Possessive. Challenging. It teased and urged her to fight back or be devoured.

She leaned into him. The heat of his skin soaked into her and coiled in her belly while the lack of air left her light-headed. Her short nails dug into his shoulders and her tongue gently lifted to stroke his. They danced, swirled, and the ferocity in his kiss melted into something Makoto could almost call tenderness.

She sighed.

Majima's arms flew away from her body as though she was engulfed in flames. He couldn't step back quick enough and the sudden movement had Makoto falling back onto the bed with a shout.

The spell had been broken.

Majima stared down at her, his eye wide in disbelief but dark with a hunger that was almost terrifying in its intensity. Makoto focused on his lips, kiss-swollen and parted slightly. She lowered her gaze and watched the flowers on his chest as they bloomed and withered with each of his breaths. The heat burning inside her coaxed her eyes to travel even lower, down his toned abdomen, until she was too embarrassed to look further.

Majima took one deep breath and leaned down to retrieve his jacket. He slipped it on, fixed the sleeves, and turned to the door without a word. This was for the best, Makoto thought, they had already gone too far. She thought about Satoru back in Osaka—he had no idea that she was in Kamurocho, let alone with another man.

She had done what she came to do.

It was time to move on.

"Majima-San!" Makoto leapt to her feet, stumbled only once, and hurried as best as she could to grab Majima before he could open the door. He didn't turn to look at her. She braced her hand against the wall to take pressure off her foot and stood up straight. A proper goodbye, she thought, he deserved that much.

"Majima-San," she said again, her voice calm with acceptance, "one more time."

Majima's inner voice was screaming at him. It was a voice of reason that he so seldom listened to these days, he barely recognized it when it screeched inside his mind. The moment he locked eyes with her on the street, he knew he had to get away. This woman, from the day he met her, had a talent for twisting his priorities and clouding his judgement in ways that could ultimately get him killed. But when she cried out in pain behind him, a visceral reaction occurred. He'd moved on instinct, protecting her and getting her out of harm's way even if he wanted to be leagues away from her. He tried to scare her off. He gave her a glimpse of Shimano's Mad Dog, but she welcomed his blade as though he offered her nothing deadlier than a bouquet of flowers.

She had changed so much.

When she fell asleep on his back, Majima wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He wanted to avoid speaking to her as much as possible and keep himself distant. If he got attached to her again, it would only end badly for the both of them. He did regret, however, not getting her hotel room key from her while she was still awake. Luckily, it wasn't overly difficult to play off the sleeping woman as being one-too-many drinks under. The employee that gave him the extra key either didn't think twice about his blatantly Yakuza attire and tattoos or he didn't care, but Majima had gotten a spare key and delivered her safe to her room in record time.

Her slim fingers clutched his jacket so tightly that he had to slip out of it in order to get her onto her bed. He clicked his tongue as he looked down at her and his blood froze when his eye landed on a dainty diamond ring on her left hand. It wasn't flashy, but it definitely cost someone a pretty penny.

A little internal voice piped up to tell him to scram before she came to, but Majima looked to her swollen ankle. He had patched himself up more than enough times that he was confident he could at least wrap it to keep it from hurting worse than it had to. A first aid kit was mounted on the wall near the door and it had enough supplies for him to get to work. Once finished, he left the first aid kit on the bedside table and looked her over. She was still so small, so fragile-looking. But, damn it, if she wasn't brave for coming to Kamurocho just to track him down. Or maybe she was just an idiot. If she hadn't found him, what if someone else had found her first?

He knelt beside the bed and looked at her face. He couldn't remember if he'd ever seen her so peaceful. Her long dark lashes rested against the apples of her cheeks, her eyes moved behind her eyelids as she dreamt. Warm puffs of breath escaped her slightly parted lips and ghosted against his own. It was a normal bodily function, just breathing, but his mind conjured an image of her beneath him, whispering his name against his lips between kisses. Majima glanced around the room before gently brushing some of Makoto's hair out of her face. She sighed softly in her sleep and Majima tried to ignore the physical effect it had on him. His face drew closer, his lips barely a breath from hers.

"Majima-San."

Majima reeled back, horror washing cold through his veins as he searched Makoto's face for any sign of consciousness. There was none. She nuzzled her face into his jacket as she slept soundly, no sign of her having noticed his transgression.

"What the hell do ya think you're doing?" He berated himself. He shook his head and made a beeline for the bathroom, leaving Makoto to cling to his jacket in peace. He stripped off his gloves and ran the sink. He cupped his hands under the faucet and splashed cold water in his face as though he could wash away any thoughts of her down the drain. She deserved better, he distantly thought. She deserved better than the likes of him fantasizing about her. He didn't deserve to think about how soft her breasts felt pressed against his back as he carried her, or how warm she felt. He didn't deserve to hear her say his name with such emotion, or to feel her lips against his.

And yet…

Majima groaned and fisted his hand against the counter. He wanted to slam it down but feared the noise would wake her. His pants were uncomfortably tight and the more Majima tried not to think of her, the more she invaded his mind. He grasped himself over the leather and tried to quell the desire coiling inside him. He wasn't some high school kid that couldn't handle his own body. He counted backwards, thought of baseball statistics, did every damn trick in the book to get himself under control.

Blood dripped from his nose.

"You son of a bitch!" He pointed accusingly at his reflection. He grabbed a fistful of toilet tissue and pressed it against his nose to mop up the traitorous crimson stream. At least the shock wilted his erection enough to be manageable. Once the blood stopped, Majima tossed the soiled tissue into the toilet and flushed. He washed his face in the sink and met the gaze of his reflection.

He had to get out. That was the only option. He'd leave before she woke up and maybe she'd think it was all a dream—or at the very least get the hint that he didn't want to see her. Yet, when he opened the bathroom door, she was there to meet him. Those large brown eyes that seemed to see deep inside him, even back when they saw nothing at all, seared into his skin. He followed her gaze to his tattoos and internally cursed. He thought she must have been terrified and he had half a mind to snatch his jacket from her and cover up. Then, she lifted her hand and his stomach dropped.

If she touched him, it would be all over.

Getting her back to the bed was easy, but she still wouldn't give up his jacket. He considered leaving it behind for a brief moment, just so he could get away before he lost control. But she tested his patience. She raised her voice, demanded answers from him, and those powerful eyes almost brought him to his knees.

He just wanted to shut her up.

His body moved on its own.

He lost himself when he kissed her. His thoughts were consumed by the taste of her mouth and the heat of her body. If she wanted to find him so badly, he'd make sure she could never forget about him. He would erase any traces of the men that came before and stake his claim against any in the future. He hadn't expected her to kiss him back. He didn't expect the gentle caress of her tongue to wrap razor-wire around his heart. Then she sighed, and he felt the organ shred in his chest.

He'd crossed a line, even as he pulled away from her and sent her tumbling back against the mattress, he could see she knew it too. The guilt was written all over her face and shimmered in the rock adorning her finger. Majima grabbed his jacket, prepared to make his exit calm and collected.

But damn her.

"One more time," she said. Her voice was soft, breathless. Majima didn't turn to look at her, he couldn't. If he met her eyes, he would break. She tugged at his sleeve, gently coaxing him to turn and face her. "This is the last time, isn't it? So...just once more..." Her soft hand reached up to cup his cheek and Majima resisted the urge to close his eye at the contact.

Majima's hand rested on top of hers. He tried to ignore the cold bite of her engagement ring beneath his fingers and focused on the warmth of her touch. Heat seeped into his flesh and spread through his veins, the subtle scent of massage oil enveloped him—lulled him into a state of calm his mind hadn't known for what seemed like an eternity. When had his sense of responsibility for her turned into this? He thought he had done the right thing by walking away from her but he couldn't bring himself to do it again.

"Fuck," he sighed.

Makoto blinked at the expletive, concern furrowing her brow. She opened her mouth to question him but all that came out was a surprised squeak as Majima pressed their bodies together and slanted his mouth over hers. Makoto tried to keep up. She was just as unprepared for this kiss as the first but she was not about to let it pass her by. She wrapped both arms around Majima's neck, gasping into his kiss as he lifted her off the floor. She wrapped her legs around his hips and her tongue mingled with his as he walked her back over to the bed. Majima carefully laid her against the mattress.

Their lips parted and Makoto flushed at the heat in Majima's eye as he gazed down upon her. She clasped her hands instinctively over her chest in an attempt to quell the fluttering of her heart. Her lips felt swollen and her tongue darted out as though to soothe them. Majima's eye zeroed in on the tiny pink muscle and Makoto shivered at the jolt of electricity that the look sent through her. She glanced away, shyness overcoming her. She had asked for this, she knew, but actually having it happen seemed so surreal.

Majima's hand was ice-cold against her cheek as he tilted her face back towards him. His brow was furrowed, his lips a firm line, but his gaze was warm—controlled.

"Tell me to stop," he told her with that same sincere voice she had longed for. Her heart pained at the sound and she raised her hands just a fraction to touch his face...but she paused. Her ring glittered accusingly but Makoto couldn't bring herself to feel guilty. She knew she should. She knew Satoru had no idea where she was or what she was up to...but even thinking of his smiling face—so elated just to see her as he came home from a long day of work—did nothing. Slowly, she slipped the ring off of her finger. Majima watched her, silent, as she reached over her head and hid the jewelry beneath a pillow. It felt right, somehow, that no evidence of their lives outside be seen. Makoto's hand felt lighter, her heart even more so, and she gave no more thought to the world on other side of the door as she took Majima's face in her hands and pulled him down for another kiss.

Majima faltered for just a moment at her boldness but regained his composure with the first sweet caress of her tongue. He followed her lead, his tongue mimicking the gentle, unhurried strokes. The kiss returned the Makoto he remembered, soft and timid but harboring so much heat behind it that every contact set his nerves aflame. He groaned into her mouth as her hands left searing trails along his chest, her fingertips teasing his skin with a feather-like touch as they took in every lean muscle of his abdomen. He let her explore, humming his appreciation whenever she stumbled upon a particularly sensitive spot, and his hand went to the buttons on her blouse. He slipped one loose, then the next, and Makoto began to tremble beneath him as his lips left hers. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, and while his hand continued down the line of buttons, he nibbled beneath her ear.

Makoto keened beneath him, a sakura petal blush spreading across her cheeks. She tilted her head and her back arched of its own accord. Heat pooled between her thighs as Majima planted open-mouthed kisses along her neck, suckling and tasting her skin. He kissed to her collarbone, her chest, between her breasts, alternating between the soft press of lips to a lewd swirl of his tongue. A cream colored bra barred his path, concealing her breasts from his reverent ministrations. He ran his tongue along the seam where cloth met skin, his eye flicking to Makoto's face to watch her reaction. Her breath left her in gentle pants but her eyes were looking everywhere but him.

Majima rested the his palms against her back, sat back on his knees, and pulled her up with him to hold her flush against his chest. She gasped, her thighs gripping his hips as she settled into his lap.

"Majima-San…" Makoto was breathless, her blush darkening at the feel of him hardening against her. Majima slanted his mouth over hers, one hand tangled in her short hair as the other struggled with the clasps of her bra. It took him an extra moment, but he slid the straps from her shoulders in one smooth motion once the hooks were released. Makoto's fingers, thin but strong from her years as a masseuse, carded through Majima's hair. She gently massaged his scalp as they kissed, manicured nails gently scraping his skin and coaxing a shiver to travel the length of his spine. He rocked against her, groaning low in his throat as a sweet feeling spread through him.

He helped her slip his jacket off of his shoulders, tossing it off the bed with a careless flick of his arm as he pulled back just enough to take in her bare torso. He paused at the sight of the round scar on her abdomen—the remnants of the gunshot she'd sustained what seemed like a lifetime ago. Majima brushed his thumb against it, as if he could smooth the skin with just his touch—as if he could take back the horror of the past and promise her a future without pain. Makoto's palm brushed his cheek and guided his gaze back to her level. Her kiss was sweet, pure, and he was unworthy of it.

She didn't need to speak, and he knew no number of apologies could remove the scars that both of them bore from that day. Majima cradled her head in his hand and deepened their kiss—he couldn't erase the past, but they had tonight just for themselves. He was determined to make it one she would remember fondly for years to come. Makoto moaned and pressed herself against him, her hands bracing against his shoulders. Majima pulled back for breath and watched her blush spread down her neck to her chest. Her nipples were just as pink and Majima ran a calloused thumb over one, delighting in her gasp as it pebbled beneath his touch. He continued to massage one breast as he carefully laid her down on her back once more. Makoto arched her back, squeaking out a mewl-like sound as his mouth encased the other nipple. He licked and sucked greedily, swirling his tongue around it until it was at attention. He kissed his way to the opposite breast, his hot breath eliciting a shiver to wrack her spine.

Her breasts, her ribs, down her soft stomach, Majima's mouth left a molten heat in its wake. Makoto gripped the pillow behind her head as he unbuttoned her pants, his kisses followed the waistband as he slipped the garment off her hips and only ceased when he stepped away to remove them and her underwear completely. He fumbled with his belt for a moment but made quick work of his own much-too-tight pants.

Makoto's eyes widened when she got her first look at him completely bare before her. He gave her a moment, inwardly cursing and hoping she wouldn't ask him to stop now. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, then smiled and stretched her arms out toward him.

"Majima-san…"

Soft, coaxing—as if she were frightened he'd be scared off rather than the other way around—she called for him. Majima knelt between her legs, placing her hands against his chest. Her hands wandered along the lines of ink, tracing the scales of the snakes and the petals of the flowers. They followed the ripple of muscle down his torso and smoothed around his slim waist to dance up across the face of the Hannya on his back. Majima closed his eye, buried his face in her neck, and breathed her in. She continued to explore his skin as his hand delved between them to massage between her legs.

Her hips bucked against his already slick fingers. She was swollen and sensitive—just the faintest touch summoned a reaction from her—and Majima groaned as his middle finger slipped inside and was enveloped in her tight heat. The sounds she made shot straight through his groin as he began to slide his finger in and out, adding one more and curling them slightly to make her whimper beneath him. The more he thrust his fingers, the faster her breath left her—until his name tumbled from her lips in broken fragments, she gripped his shoulders, and her body arched so beautifully against his as her muscles contracted around his digits. She moaned in his ear and he secured her body against his chest as he continued to move his fingers through the tremors inside her. He felt her entire body shudder against him once more and slowed his pace when she began to whimper against his skin. When he removed them, her hips rolled against him and she pressed a sweet kiss against his jaw.

"Makoto," he groaned, feeling her slide against his weeping manhood once more. She took him in hand and he almost choked, her soft palm such a stark contrast to his own as she carefully stroked him and guided him to her. He wanted to take his time, draw out their night as much as possible, but her warmth beckoned to him and his nerves cried out in desperation. He rested his forehead against hers and slowly slid home, relishing how her breath left her and she angled her hips to accommodate him. She was made for him, sheathing him to the hilt and wrapping one leg around his hips to secure him.

He kissed her as he moved, pouring everything he couldn't say and things that were best left unsaid into the rocking of his hips. Each time she moved to meet him, a soft moan left her to dance across his lips. He wanted all of them, every breath, every whisper, everything that was impossible to give him in one night. He listened as her voice hitched when he angled his thrusts up, increased momentum, and it climbed higher and higher until he lost himself in her litany of his name and the clenching of her walls around him. He came undone inside her, thrusting through her aftershocks until they both were collapsed on the bed, panting and sheening with sweat.

Majima wasn't sure how long they laid there, but he watched her, beautiful in the afterglow. She turned her face toward him, a pure smile playing on her soft, swollen lips. Her hand caressed his cheek and she pressed a chaste kiss against his eyelid when it fluttered closed.

"Majima-San...one more time."

He smiled.


End file.
